The Pull Of Freedom

by Barrett, Brenda

  “What’s wrong Mamee?” He asked fearfully his eyes wide and tear filled.

  “Get him out of here,” Mamee said to one of the girls hovering in the doorway.

  “Boil some water Jamilia,” Mamee commanded, frantically tearing off Martha’s clothes and wrapping her in a sheet.

  They waited as Martha deliriously growled and clutched her belly.

  Mother Esther came into the room with a bag filled with herbs and other pungent smelling herbs.

  Martha could barely speak she was sweating and gasping, “I should have gone,” she whispered to Mamee, “I should have gone with ‘im.”

  “No,” Mamee whispered, “I would have wanted to go with you. It is not safe out there.”

  Martha screamed as the pains in her back met the pains in her front, her body tightened in defence as the pain wrapped its tentacles around her small frame.

  “Pant,” Mother Esther said her booming voice irreverently loud in the room. She was a big woman her coffee coloured skin in contrast with her pearly whites.

  Mamee clutched Martha’s hands; she was her only child, if only she knew it. She wanted to tell her so much and yet she couldn’t, Martha needed all her strength if she was going to pull through.

  Please God let her lose the baby and save her. Mamee prayed quietly, I don’t have anything to live for if she dies. She looked up at the crudely constructed roof. No effort was taken with their quarters, they were only slaves absorbed in a land called Jamaica, used and abused as women and now on the verge of death. Tears ran unchecked down Mamee’s cheeks, her heartbeat raced at every scream uttered from Martha. The girl was suffering, she was panting and could barely breathe; barely able to ingest the herbs that Mother Esther kept trying to shove down her throat.

  For hours the plantation was still; knowing the threat of death was at the door. Martha began to push, her pain-hazed body wanting to expel its burden. Her pulse slowed to a crawl and she was gasping for air. She looked over at Mamee who was sitting beside her, sweat gathered on her face.

  “Mamee,” Martha whispered, when she got a brief respite from the pain.

  “Yes,” Mamee choked out.

  “If it’s a girl, her name is Asha okay ... ”

  “Yes,” Mamee murmured, “save your strength to push.”

  “Listen,” Martha whispered, “it's an Ashanti word which means life, she will not be a coward like me. She will be as brave as her father and as free as the wind.”

  She panted and pushed, then looked up through her tears and sweat, “Mamee,” she groaned, “I always knew that you loved me best.”

  Mamee squeezed her hand and tears clouded her eyes as Mother Esther wrapped the small baby that came from Martha, they cleared her nasal passages and she mewled.

  “She’s alive,” Mother Esther whispered. “She will be a house slave.”

  They looked at her skin tone and breathed a sigh of relief. They both looked down at Martha and knew that she hadn't suffered the same fate; she was still in the darkness her face twisted in pain.

  Mother Esther arranged her hand over her chest and dragged the sheet to cover her face.

  “Give her to me,” Mamee said shuddering as she took the baby from Mother Esther, “this is my granddaughter her name is Asha. It means life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “There was a death on your plantation last night,” Bridget said to Elizabeth as they stood at the pier waiting to go on a ship. Fortunately for Elizabeth, she had gotten passage on the prestigious Lady Bird.

  They stood under their parasols, both women looking forlorn. The place smelt fishy; the human waste and hustle and bustle was depressing.

  “Who?” Elizabeth asked alarmed. Everybody seemed okay when she left the evening before.

  “Our friend Martha,” Bridget said sadly, “she died giving birth to a little girl.”

  Elizabeth closed her swollen eyes. She wished Bridget had not told her so that she could imagine Martha, who was so good with her son, playing with him and making him happy. It was too much for her to bear and she hugged Bridget briefly as she stepped aboard the ship.

  “Write me,” she said hoarsely, her voice low and raw. “Please check up on Mark.”

  Bridget nodded, the two of them knowing that Mark was losing his mother and his dearest friend Martha all in one day.

  “Never let anything happen to Mamee or Martha’s girl,” Elizabeth clutched Bridget’s hands.

  “I promise,” Bridget said solemnly.

  Elizabeth went on board a broken woman as she left behind all she held dear. She sat on the bottom bunk bed in her cabin and cried great hacking sobs, her roommate a young girl named Hilma Braithwaite Stoddard looked at her dispassionately and waited until she was finished.

  “That’s my bed,” she said to Elizabeth. “I am sleeping on the bottom bunk and you will have to sleep up top.” She fluffed her long blonde hair; her blue eyes cold and glassy.

  “I am s... so..sorry,” Elizabeth said, “I just left my husband and son and I learnt that a friend of mine died in childbirth.”

  Hilma looked at her coldly, “that’s nothing to be wailing about, my parents died in a fire set by the creatures they call slaves, my twin also perished along with our friend the barrister who was supposed to endow my father with thousands of pounds. One of the slaves stole my priceless chain given to me by my grandmother that is worth thousands of pounds. Somebody took my father’s chest filled with gold. Half of that was to be my dowry.”

  She paused for a breath and looked at Elizabeth, disdain still in her eyes. “My property was burned to the ground, all our livestock stolen. I got married with naught a penny to my name and my husband, God bless his heart, decided to overlook my lack of dowry in exchange for a dead estate. I am returning to England to stay with my family until my husband who is a captain in the queen’s army can meet me there.”

  Elizabeth looked at the girl in front of her dumbfounded. She was so wrapped up in her own problems she didn’t realise how petty they were.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered to the girl.

  “The name is Hilma Braithwaite Stoddard,” Hilma said haughtily, she was happy that she had shocked her new roommate into reality; she was not in the mood to hear anybody’s sob story. She was used to being the centre of attention and what better way to get it than to show that she had an even sadder story than the paltry concoction the girl in front of her had.

  “I am Elizabeth Howard Simmonds.” Liz said sniffling, “I remember hearing about your plantation.”

  “Are you related to Lord Newton Howard?” Hilma asked eagerly, as she searched her brain for royal connections, might be Elizabeth Simmonds was well connected; it wouldn’t hurt to make friends with the affluent.

  “He is my father,” Elizabeth wiped her eyes daintily with a hanky and missed the look of glee that passed over Hilma’s face.

  “I think I should not have snapped at you earlier,” Hilma said gently, “what’s wrong?”

  Liz told her and fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Now, now, now,” Hilma said avarice gleaming in her eyes. “I think you should forget the slaves and your husband, in time your little boy will grow to be just like him, a carbon copy of his evil father and it would just break your heart if you were around to see it.”

  Elizabeth happy to make a friend nodded. “I wanted to take him with me. I feel like such a bad mother.”

  “I know,” Hilma said sympathy oozing from her, as she mouthed platitudes to the daughter of Lord Newton Howard, he was a Count.

  She couldn’t believe her luck; she was rubbing shoulders with royalty. By the time she finished with Elizabeth she would be thinking she was better off at home in England entertaining the well-to-do. If Elizabeth decided to include her in her circle she could solicit enough funds to fight the war against the rebellious slaves who had robbed her of everything she held dear.

  Section 2

  An Impossible Love

  1736

&nbs
p; Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Robert Simmonds strutted into his living room and breathed a sigh of relief. He had just returned from the council meeting, they had discussed at length the topic of the maroon revolts and how terrible they were becoming—Robert Hunter, the governor of only two years, was turning out to be ineffective. The run away slaves were becoming a nuisance, he leaned on the window that overlooked his lawn and yawned.

  He had accomplished most of what he wanted to accomplish in the past fifteen years, he was one of the most powerful men on the island and his advice was sought on many topics. He had proved to himself and his estranged wife, that he could make it without her father’s money.

  Sugar cane was one of the most popular crops in Jamaica and he was fortunate that he had the foresight to see that it would do well—it was like gold. The other parts of the world could not get enough but the maroons could cost him his livelihood and he was not going to stand for that. He poured himself a drink and sipped it thoughtfully.

  Over the years he had a few runaways but was always fortunate enough to recapture them and make an example of them. He spotted his son across the lawn heading for the back of the house, where the kitchen was located, and sighed.

  His only son and heir, now twenty years old, had no interest in the plantation business, he had no interest in anything but that slave girl they called Asha. He had encouraged Mark’s using of the slave girls, after all who was he to judge but the boy only seemed interested in that one girl, five years ago he had become alarmed at the attachment his son had with the girl so he had sent him to England to be with his mother for a while, but he came back with a fancy education and an unusual affinity for slaves—it was worrying.

  Mark had not spoken to him for weeks after he threatened to sell Asha. Afraid of losing his only son, he had withdrawn the threat.

  “Sir,” Mamee said behind him, “Massa Williams and Miss Bridget are in the drawing room to see you.”

  Robert sighed and finished his drink, “tell them I'll be there in a minute.” Bridget and Harvey Williams were always visiting. When Elizabeth left all those years ago Bridget had taken it upon herself to mother Mark, turning him against his own father and putting pansy ideas in his head.

  He always had the suspicion that she was a nigger lover but he couldn’t prove it. The Williams’ in all his years of knowing them had never had a runaway slave. His bastard son, of the slave girl he had sold to them, had been running things as if he were there legitimate child. He was never comfortable around them, he always felt spied upon.

  He inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face while entering the drawing room.

  “Oh Robert, there you are,” Bridget smiled at him and he gave her the perfunctory handshake.

  He glanced across at her husband who was smoking a cigar, his jovial face weather lined, “Simmonds,” he said in his gravely voice and pumped his hand vigorously, “how was the council meeting?”

  “It was good,” Robert said, sitting down across from the couple, “we decided to deploy more troops to the hills to capture or kill the runaways.”

  “I heard that you have a new captain who has great military strategies,” Williams said winking, “I hope he is a little better than the last one.”

  “I have no idea about him,” said Robert, “he will not be working on our side of the island, he will be deployed to the East. I heard his name is Stoddard.”

  “Stoddard?” Bridget asked alarmed, “that’s the name of Liz’s friend Hilma.”

  “He is more determined than most of the others to stamp out the runaways so maybe he has a motive,” Robert murmured. “I think he has a plantation here too.”

  “Ah,” Williams said nodding, “if he’s Hilma’s husband she must have convinced him to get her revenge on the slaves no matter what.”

  Robert shrugged; he was never interested in hearing about Liz the faithless, daddy’s brat. She was anathema to him. Her friend Hilma was probably from the same mould. He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years and he didn’t want to.

  “The mulattoes are the ones that we should watch,” Robert said to Williams changing the topic. “Look at how they operate in Haiti. They have no slaves there now because of those mulattoes. They are a force to be reckoned with, some of them are almost as bad as the maroons.”

  Bridget stiffened, she had adopted his child and the man was sitting their calmly talking about mulattoes as if a good percentage of them were not his offspring.

  “Some mulattoes will own plantations,” Bridget said choosing her words carefully, “like our son Daniel, he is interested in treating his slaves right, not aiding and abetting the maroons.”

  Robert cleared his throat and looked away sheepishly—Daniel closely resembled him and everyone knew he was his son by a slave woman. That was one of his most embarrassing mistakes—having the boy so close to where he lived.

  He was saved from responding when Mark entered the sitting room. The boy was now a man; he looked proudly on his son and smiled. Broad of shoulders, slim of hip, his easy going manner and his congenial smile had all the females in a tizzy. Even the slave girls ran to do his bidding.

  “Dad,” Mark nodded to his father, “Aunt Bridget,” he kissed Bridget on her forehead and hugged Williams. “I can’t stay to chat,” he said easily sitting down, “I promised to look on a sick horse for Temple, the carriage man.”

  Robert nodded, “we were discussing the council meeting.”

  Mark hurriedly jumped up, he was tired of council meeting conversations and the railing and ranting against people who only desired their freedom. He was always pro-maroon and inevitably that angered his father.

  “Be seeing you folks,” he headed toward the door.

  Bridget smiled at him proudly, a look of understanding in her eyes when Williams grunted.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “What are you doing Asha?” Mamee asked the girl as she bent to pick flowers, they were all bunched up in her hands and her face was glowing.

  “Mark said that he was going to visit Temple and you know that Temple’s wife has a stomach problem, I just thought that I could help out by sending flowers.”

  Mamee folded her arms and glared, Asha did'nt act like a slave, she considered the world in rosy hues as if she was just helping out around the house instead of being compelled to do so.

  She had tried with Asha but as the girl got older Miss Bridget had asked to spend more time with her, after each session the girl seemed a bit more brainwashed. Massa Mark was no help either, he had taken Asha as his playmate when she was a baby; he was still attached to the girl, so much so that Mamee was becoming uncomfortable.

  Asha was turning into a young lady, her breasts were filling out and she was taking a more womanly shape. Her eyes were big and brown and very expressive and in them Mamee could see the love for Mark she could barely hide. The young man was no better either, he always made excuses to be around her, always touching her hand and laughing with her, oblivious of his father’s disapproval.

  And here he was coming; walking with the swagger of one who knew his subjects adored him. A wave of resentment welled up in Mamee for Mark. She had helped to grow him when his mother had fled Jamaica like a scalded cat and now he was out to get the one precious thing left to her, her granddaughter.

  He was going to hurt her; Mamee could see it. He filled the girls head with impossible dreams of them being together. Everybody knew that a black and white relationship could not work in this society.

  “Stop frowning woman,” Jamelia said coming up beside Mamee, she had a basin filled with potatoes and a sharp looking knife. “What you should do is find work for the girl to do, she will be so tired she will not have time for the Massa’s son.”

  “You are right,” Mamee murmured. “Asha” she said out loud, “could you peel these for me?”

  Asha turned around her eyes alight with laughter, she had seen Mark coming and her heart had picked up speed. He was so handsome.

  “
Sure Mamee,” she said, “I will give these flowers to Mark to take to Temple.”

  Mark stopped beside her and smiled, “are those for me or Temple?”

  Asha blushed and handed them to him, “Temple’s wife.”

  Mark took them from her and held on to her fingers, “can you meet me by the stream?” He was aware that Mamee was watching them and that she did not approve of his attention to Asha. “I have something for you.”

  Asha nodded and then turned around and mouthed, when?

  Mark smiled and held up two fingers. That meant in two hours; Asha knew what he meant and nodded.

  Mark walked slowly towards the section of the plantation where the carriages and the horses that pulled them were kept; he was deep in thought and barely took note of the landscape. He was in turmoil, as far as the eye could see was sugarcane, the source of his father’s wealth and yet it was the source of his sorrow.

  He had a deep-seated resentment of slavery and since his sojourn from England he was even more resentful of the practice. He had not wanted to leave Jamaica to stay with a mother he barely remembered. He remembered begging his father to let him stay or to at least carry Asha. His father had retorted that Asha was the reason why he was sending him away to get her out of his system.

  For his five years in England he had pined away for her, his childhood playmate, only to return and to realise that she was no longer the little girl with the coltish legs and the wide brown eyes who used to hero worship him but that she was turning into a beautiful girl. Her dusky caramel coloured skin and pink lips kept him dreaming of her in the nights, her laughter was like music to his ears and he feared that they would never be together.

  He would probably be required to marry a nice, placid daughter of another plantation owner and to suppress his desires for Asha forever or watch as she became a breeding mare for one of his father’s black slaves. The thought stopped him in his tracks and he felt dizzy. He would not allow that to happen, he would rather die than see Asha used that way.